“Arsi——? So she does. You should understand we’re in Egypt, in the halls of Ptolemy Philadelphus, on the banks of the River Nile. I will begin. _Cease.... Cease your song. Arisba! Lotos! THANKS._ _And for thy pains accept this ivory pin...._ _Shall it be said in many-gated Thebes_ _That Arsinoe’s mean?_ _The desert wind...._ _Hark to’t!_ _Methinks ’twill blow all night;_ _Lashing the lebbek trees anent Great Cheops’ Pyre;_ _Tracing sombre shadows o’er its stony walls._ _Within the wombats wail_ _Tearing the scarabs from Prince Kamphé’s tomb._ _His end was sudden ... strangely so;_ _Osiris stalks our land. Kamphé and little Ti (his daughter—wife)_ _Both dead within a week. Ah me, I fear_ _Some priestly treachery; but see! What crouching shape is this?... Peace, fool!_” “_I did not speak.... Oh, Queen._” “_ENOUGH. Thou weariest me._” “_I go!_” “_Yet stay! Where is thy Lord?_” “_Alas! I do not know._” “_Then get ye gone—from hence!_” “_I shall obey._” “... Wail it!” Mrs. Mary rested. “Wail what, Mrs. Mary?” “Let me hear that _bey_: O-bey. Sound your menace.” “I shall o-bey.” “_O beating heart_, Mrs. Mary paced stormily the room, _Tumultuous throbbing breast. Alas! how art thou laden?..._” She turned. “Slave!...” “Me, Mrs. Mary?” “Come on. Come on.” “Slave’s off.” “Pst, girl. Then take _the Duke_!” “_Fairest_——” “_High Horus!... What! Back from Ethiopia and the Nubean Army! Is’t indeed Ismenias...?_” “_Listen._” “_Hast deserted_ Ptolemy?” “_Fairest_——” “_O Gods of Egypt_——” “Someone wants you, Mrs. Mary.” “Wants me?” “Your chauffeur, I think.” “The car, M’m,” a servant announced. “Ah!” she broke off, “An engagement, I fear. But come and see me again. Come one day to the theatre. Our stage-door is in Sloop Street, an _impasse_ off the Strand.” And Mrs. Mary, gathering up her skirts, nodded and withdrew. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ IX “BLACK her great boots! Not I,” Miss Sinquier said to herself as she turned her back on Mary Lodge to wend her way westward across the Park. She was to meet Mrs. Sixsmith at a certain club on Hay Hill towards dusk to learn whether any tempting offer had been submitted Sir Oliver for her pearls. “If I chose I suppose I could keep them,” she murmured incoherently to herself as she crossed the Row. It was an airless afternoon. Under the small formal trees sheltering the path she clapped her sunshade to, and slackened speed. The rhododendrons, in vivid clumps of new and subtle colours brushing the ground, were in their pride. Above, the sky showed purely blue. She walked on a little way towards Stanhope Gate when, overcome by the odoriferous fragrance of heliotropes and xenias, she sank serenely to a bench.